


The Waiting Seems Eternity

by cleflink



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, But it's not really meant that way, Canon-Typical Violence, Highlander - Freeform, Immortality, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Minor Character Death, Rough Sex, Swords
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-01
Updated: 2014-11-01
Packaged: 2018-02-23 12:22:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2547353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cleflink/pseuds/cleflink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jensen Ackles was born 2800 years ago in the once-great empire of Assyria. He is Immortal and he is not alone. For millennia he has hidden the truth of his immortality and he has fought to keep from losing his head - and his life - to another Immortal seeking his power. He has met many people in his life, both mortals and Immortals. Some good, some evil. </p><p>He has never met anyone like Jared.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Waiting Seems Eternity

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [spn_cinema](http://spn_cinema.livejournal.com) 1980s genre challenge. I chose the film [Highlander](http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0091203/), although parts of this story have also been influenced by the TV series. Title is from 'It's a Kind of Magic' by Queen.

Jensen could quite honestly say that this was one fight to the death that he'd never expected to have.

"Before we get started," Jensen's opponent said, his upraised sword rock-steady in his hand. "Can I just say that this is really awkward?"

Because the thing with being 2800 years old was that there were a lot of faces in Jensen's past. Some he remembered well, some had turned to smears of memory with the passage of time, some he'd forgotten almost as soon as he'd turned away from them and some would be branded on his soul until the day someone finally succeeded in removing his head from his shoulders and brought his too-long life to an end.

The face before him wasn't quite in the last category, but it was unexpected enough to stop Jensen in his metaphorical tracks, his own sword half-forgotten in his hand. 

"Unless of course you don't remember me," the man continued, when all Jensen did was gape like an idiot. "Which makes it even more awkward."

"Jared," Jensen said immediately, still trying to get his head around the truth of what he was seeing.

It wasn't as though Jensen wasn't used to having faces from his past come back to haunt him. He'd met a lot of other Immortals over the course of his existence and, in a life that spanned millennia, it wasn't exactly unusual when friends and enemies alike popped up out of the woodwork after ten, fifty, five hundred years of silence. Hell, the only reason he was even in this stupid warehouse was because he'd been - rather enthusiastically - challenged to a duel by an Immortal who'd been a pain in his ass since the rise of the frigging Roman Empire. So, no, unexpected reunions weren't anything out of the ordinary for people like Jensen.

But this was one face that Jensen should not be seeing right now, and for very good reason.

Mainly because Jared had definitely been mortal the last time they'd met. About 400 years ago.

\---

_Florence, Italy, 1609_

There was something wonderfully nostalgic about debating philosophy in Latin.

The two Parisian students who'd drawn Jensen into their debate about the nature of suffering were clearly regretting it, if their chagrined expressions were anything to go by. It didn't help that their Latin was clearly not as strong as they thought it was and Jensen was certain that their Italian was going to be even worse. He could, of course, have switched to their language - he'd spent more than enough time in France over the last century to pick it up - but the man he was right now couldn't speak French. And Jensen wasn't about to draw attention to himself for something so trivial.

Besides, he was enjoying himself. And it was always good to help enlighten the foolish.

"Gianni!" a voice called, as Jensen's defeated opponents slunk off - hopefully to take another look at their Heraclitus. Jensen turned and was nearly run over by an enormously fat man in a richly embroidered red jerkin. "I should have known I'd find you here!"

"Agnolo," Jensen returned, grinning broadly. He stepped forward to catch the big man's hand in a firm handshake. "I didn't know you were back in Florence! I'd have stopped by to pay my respects."

Agnolo waved him off. "I've hardly had time to breathe, let alone debate the nature of mankind's existence with you, dear friend."

Jensen snorted. "As if we don't both know that you could talk me under the table. What brings you to the school today? Have you a lecture to deliver?"

"Yes, but later. I have someone I'd like to introduce to you, first." 

He gestured, and Jensen turned his attention to the tall young man standing quietly at Agnolo's side.

"This is Jared," Agnolo said, with avuncular pride. "One of my students. A very promising Greek scholar. Jared, meet Messer Gianni Rossi, one of our preeminent translators."

"Flatterer," Jensen said. He inclined his head. "Greetings. Welcome to Florence."

"It's a pleasure to meet you," the boy, Jared, said. His Italian was fluid but with a hint of an accent that made Jensen cock his head curiously.

"Polish?" he asked, and got a surprised grin in response.

"From Krakow," Jared said. "I've come to Florence to further my studies."

"Well, you won't find a teacher better than Dottore Foscari." Jensen waited a beat, then added, "Probably." 

"You're too kind," Agnolo said dryly. Jensen offered him an innocent smile and Agnolo shook his head. "And you wonder why I never visit. Jared's expressed particular interest in the works of the sophists," he continued, "which I know is a strength of yours, Gianni. I believe that Jared would benefit from your expertise. If you have the time, of course."

"Of course," Jensen said, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling at the unintended absurdity of that question. Unless another Immortal had taken up residence in Florence with designs on his head, Jensen had nothing _but_ time. "It would be my pleasure."

"Splendid! I knew I could count on you. We'll set up some time t-"

The sound of footsteps rang against the marble flooring, echoing loudly in the cavernous space beneath the domed ceiling. Long years of practice kept Jensen from flinching, but he couldn't quite stop the casual drift of his hand towards the hilt of his sword. 

A student appeared at the end of the hall, clearly mortal, and Jensen let himself relax.

"Dottore Foscari," the youth said, when he got close enough. He was practically vibrating with some strange combination of youthful zeal and mild terror. "Could I talk to you a moment about my treatise on the importance of conviviality in _The Symposium_?"

"Yes, Carlo, I'll be right there. Another young mind in need of molding," Agnolo said to Jensen, with a wry twist of his mouth. "Would you mind terribly if I left Jared in your care for a short time?"

"Not at all," Jensen said. He winked. "Although if he's as promising a student as you say he is, I might just keep him."

Agnolo laughed. "I'll leave you to explain that to his parents, then. Good day to you."

"And to you," Jensen answered, as Agnolo swept off with his hapless student dragging along behind. He turned to Jared. "I hope you don't object to the change in plans."

"Not at all!" Jared blurted, and promptly blushed at his own enthusiasm. "I enjoyed listening to your thoughts on harmony and opposition," he said, with a gesture towards where Jensen's erstwhile debate partners had been standing. His expression went shy as he added, "Although I must confess that your Latin is a little hard to understand at times."

Jensen had learned Latin while Cicero was giving speeches in the senate. He wasn't about to start pronouncing it incorrectly for the sake of a bunch of provincials who'd decided that it presented a fun challenge to resurrect a dead language. 

He affected an affable smile. "A side effect of having many teachers. Well, then. Shall I show you around the school?"

"I don't want to trouble you, Messer Rossi."

"You're not," Jensen said. He offered Jared a smile and Jared's eyes lingered too long on his lips. "Trust me, you'll be able to tell if I'm feeling troubled."

Jared drew his attention back and grinned, with a hint of mischief that had been notably absent in Agnolo's presence. "I'll keep that in mind."

He was a handsome lad, Jensen noticed, with a well-formed figure and a smile that tried to brighten the entire room, though he'd be more attractive yet once he grew into the length of his arms and legs. He looked to be a few years shy of 20, and wore the lingering softness of childhood well. 

Jensen felt a low throb of attraction in his loins.

"Come along then," he said, starting them into motion. "What have you seen thus far?"

Jared told him how far he and Agnolo had got in their tour, and Jensen picked up from there.

Jensen had always liked schools. Europe hadn't been particularly keen on them for the past couple of centuries, aside from the monasteries, and this new 'rebirth' of culture the Italians were championing was a welcome change. There was something bittersweet about seeing the peoples and texts of his past treated with eager but naïve enthusiasm by these new scholars, but Jensen could only applaud their unabashed love of humanism. He could only hope that this movement continued for a good few decades yet.

He was definitely looking forward to long hair going out of fashion again, though. Give him some anastole curls any day.

The smooth, chin-length fall of Jared's hair suited him well, though, he had to admit.

As, he discovered while they walked, did the boy's obvious intellect and the particularly naïve brand of eagerness that only ever came with youth. His thoughts were rough and unrefined, but striking nonetheless. As they conversed, Jensen found himself with absolutely no doubt as to why Agnolo was so pleased with this one. A promising student indeed.

He told Jared as much, and enjoyed watching Jared's cheeks pink. Which Jared noticed, if his sudden intake of breath was anything to go by.

"Does that mean I'm promising enough to steal, after all?" Jared asked, his voice cracking on the words in a way that had nothing to do with departing boyhood and everything to do with the not-especially-subtle invitation hidden in that question. Jared's expression was painfully open, hopeful and promising more things that Jensen suspected he'd intended. 

And oh gods, it was tempting. It had been too long since Jensen had enjoyed a warm, willing body in his bed, and Jared would certainly look lovely spread out across his sheets. But even by Jensen's admittedly skewed standards, Jared was too young for him to consider. Jensen also didn't fancy being arrested for sodomy; not dying after a public execution was always so hard to explain. 

So he regretfully shelved his libido and offered Jared a smile that was friendly but chaste. "I'm afraid that my studies keep me very occupied. Far too much for me to do you any service as a mentor. Which is not to say that I would deprive you of someone with which to discuss sophistry, of course," he added, at the crestfallen expression that crossed Jared's face. Because he might not be intending to bed the boy, but that didn't mean he wouldn't seek other avenues of enjoyment with him. And Jensen always did enjoy finding bright minds to talk to.

Jared accepted the unspoken rejection with surprisingly good grace for a boy of his age, and Jensen was pleased in the coming weeks to see that Jared's enthusiasm for his company remained undiminished despite it. 

And they became friends, of a sort. It couldn't be a meeting of equals given Jensen's standing in the school and Jared's youth and inexperience, but it was enjoyable nonetheless.

Jensen stayed at the school for another year and a half before regretfully acknowledging that he'd spent too long in Florence and it was time to move on. He was lucky to have had his first death at an age where it wasn't entirely suspicious that he never looked any older, but fifteen years was about the limit of people's credulity. It was nothing he hadn't done a hundred times before, after all.

And if the memory of Jared's shy smile haunted him sometimes in the decades to come, well, it wasn't anywhere near the biggest of regrets that Jensen had in his life.

\---

"You do remember me," Jared said, sounding at once pleased and startled. His smile carved dimples into his cheeks that were so familiar it felt like a punch in Jensen's gut. "I'd greet you too, but I'm guessing that Gianni's a little passé these days."

Jensen ignored the implied question. "Wasn't expecting to see you again," he said instead, with what he thought was remarkable aplomb. 

Jared's grin was just as bright as he remembered. "I bet you weren't."

Because Jared had been just another mortal man the last time they'd met, but now he was undoubtedly an Immortal. Not only was the fact that he was standing here now undeniable proof that he hadn't died when he ought to have, but Jensen could feel the buzz of Jared's Quickening thrumming inside his head where it had never been before. 

It was their Quickenings that set the Immortals apart from the rest of mankind. The Quickening made them stronger and faster than ordinary humans, and kept them alive through anything but a beheading. It was the source of their power - their greatest strength and biggest weakness.

Because it was the Quickening that made their heads so attractive to other Immortals. For it was a power that could be stolen with an Immortal's death. And the Game wouldn't end until all but one of them was dead.

No one knew what it was that had chosen to single out _them_ from the rest of the world, but they did know what it was that prompted the change from ordinary human to Immortal.

"When was your first death?" Jensen asked. It was perhaps a rude question, but he felt that it wasn't unreasonable, given the situation.

Jared didn't appear surprised that he'd asked. "April 1621." His mouth twisted into a wry grin. "During the Polish-Ottoman War. Knew I should have stayed in Italy."

"There were worse places to be in the Renaissance," Jensen agreed, although it didn't look like Jared could have picked a much better age at which to stop growing older. Endless old age wasn't something that any Immortal wanted to be cursed with. "Food was good, at least."

"I still have dreams about that café in the Piazza del Duomo," Jared agreed, and they shared a grin that was jarring in its forgotten familiarity in an entirely unfamiliar situation.

Jensen's shocked good humour faded as he became uncomfortably aware that they were having this conversation over crossed blades. And that, although he'd known Jared once, 400 years and the sudden onset of immortality were more than enough to change a person's priorities. Jensen had seen it too many times before.

Something of this realization must have crossed his face, because the ease leached from Jared's expression and was replaced by a betrayed sort of unease. Jensen wondered if the possibility that Jensen would want his head had even crossed Jared's mind before this very moment.

Trapped by the uncertainty of the situation, they stared at each other, frozen in a wary stalemate.

"Look," Jared said abruptly. He didn't lower his sword, but Jensen couldn't fault the prudence in that. "I'm not here for you. Hell, I'd just as soon go grab a coffee and catch up for a bit. But I've got a score to settle with another Immortal and if I have to go through you to get to him then I-"

The buzz of another Quickening zapped through the air and Jensen turned sharply, tightening his grip on the hilt of his sword as he tried to keep the blade between him and both of the Immortals in the room.

A familiar figure appeared out of the shadows. His long black duster flared out behind him and the naked blade in his hand glinted ominously in the meager light filtering through the warehouse windows. "Jensen," he said, his voice rich with satisfaction. His eyes locked onto Jensen's face, ignoring Jared's presence entirely. "How kind of you to respond to my invitation. I trust it was… inspiring"

Jensen rolled his eyes. "Blowing up my apartment has a way of getting my attention, yes. You always were a drama queen." Tom was getting close enough to be dangerous and Jensen hesitated only a moment before bringing his sword to bear against him directly. It was a risk to turn his back on Jared, but that was the lesser of his problems right now. "What do you want, Tom? Because if it's my head, I'm afraid I'm using it."

Tom's smirk was entirely without mirth. "You can't tell me that you haven't been expecting this. I told you I'd be back for you."

"Actually, I was expecting that someone else would deal with your no-talent ass long before now and save me the trouble." He sighed heavily. "Guess no one else can stand to be in your company that long, either."

"Rwar," Jared murmured, making a clawing motion with one hand that Jensen caught out of the corner of his eye.

Jensen had to stifle his grin. 

The sound pulled Tom's attention away from Jensen, which Jensen appreciated.

"Who-?"

Jared stepped more fully into the light. "I really hope you remember me," he said, and it sounded nothing like the way he'd spoken to Jensen. There was a darkness to it that shuddered all the way down Jensen's spine. "Because I certainly remember what you did to my best friend."

"Ah, yes," Tom said, with clear disdain. "Montoya, isn't it?"

Jensen couldn't help a disbelieving snort. "Montoya? Seriously?" he asked Jared, who grinned.

"Gotta love the classics, man."

"That word meant something very different the last time we spoke. Although, I guess that explains the Spanish sword," Jensen said, tilting his head towards the blade in Jared's hand. 

Jared shrugged. "The Spanish make good swords." He gestured at Jensen's scimitar. "And you've got to admit that yours is a bit more unusual."

"I admit nothing."

Jared's expression was strangely intent. "You never did." 

"Entertaining as this is," Tom said, in a tone that suggested he thought it was anything but. "I'm afraid I have to cut in." He lifted his own sword - a heavy-handed broadsword - and leveled it at Jensen's chest. "You die today."

Gods, save Jensen from the melodrama. 

"Did you come here to kill this idiot?" he asked Jared, giving every appearance of ignoring Tom's posturing. His awareness of Tom's movements hadn't eased in the slightest, but it would piss Tom off even more to think that he wasn't being properly appreciated. And Jensen did so enjoy pissing off Tom. 

Jared nodded, his eyes shining with steely resolve. "I did."

Tom looked down his nose at Jared. "As if you could."

The gleaming edge of Jared's blade was very nearly as sharp as his smile. "Try me."

"Wonderful," Jensen said. He flicked his fingers in a shooing motion. "In that case, you two go right ahead and deal with that. I'll wait here." 

Tom's expression was thunderous. "How _dare_ you-"

"You sure?" Jared asked, which was impressively polite of him. Between a personal vendetta and the promise of all the power of Tom's Quickening if he won, Jared had a lot to recommend swinging first and asking later.

Jensen nodded. "Completely."

"Okay, then." Jared was moving before Tom had a chance to start complaining again, faster than someone his size should reasonably have been able to. He threw a quick slash that Tom blocked with the ringing crash of blade on blade It hadn't been intended as a killing blow, Jensen could tell immediately.

"You heard the man," Jared said, his gaze fixed unwaveringly on Tom's face. "I'm your opponent right now. You want him, you beat me first."

Tom snarled, his handsome face turned ugly by the expression.

"I'm actually kind of hoping you'll beat _him_ and save me the trouble of having to kill him myself," Jensen told Jared.

"Noted." Jared looked at Tom. "En garde."

Tom shifted into a ready stance. "I'll enjoy killing you."

They came together like the clashing tides: awesome and ruthless. The air crackled with the strength of their Quickenings, sparking flashes of light throwing shadows everywhere each time their swords connected.

Jared was good, Jensen could see, which only made sense for an Immortal who'd grown to manhood during the Renaissance; the ones who were raised learning sword play - even fencing, contrived as it was - took to it better. Jensen couldn't help but feel for the younger Immortals who only saw swords in movies and history books; they had a much harder time finding someone to teach them how not to get themselves killed in single combat.

The strength of Jared's buzz was very impressive for an Immortal only a few centuries old and Jensen wasn't especially surprised to see him more than holding his own. With skills like that, Jared was going to be a monster with another couple hundred year behind him.

Jensen stayed out of it; those were the rules of the Game. He didn't relax his grip on his sword - he hadn't lived this long by being an idiot - but it was a novel experience to watch a duel rather than participate in it, for once. He knew why dueling had gone out of style in the modern era, but a battle between sword masters fighting at this level held a sort of brutal art that nothing else could match.

It couldn't last forever, though. Jensen saw the moment where Tom overextended himself on a mighty swing and the one that followed where Jared took beautiful advantage of it. Jared's sword sank deeply into Tom's chest, straight through the heart. Tom fell to his knees with a burbling gasp as Jared yanked the blade free, not dying but still forced to suffer the same blood loss as a mortal would while the power of his Quickening worked hurriedly to repair the damage.

It wasn't fast enough.

Jared raised his sword high, an avenging warrior in jeans and a hoodie. "This is for Chad," he said, and swung his arms down.

The deceptively fragile-looking blade went through flesh and bone like butter, cleaving Tom's head from his shoulders in one fell blow. Tom's body dropped, his head hitting the ground with a meaty thud. His corpse started to glow violently blue, and Jared took a deep, preparatory breath. 

The crackle of Tom's Quickening skittered across the floor, leeching out of his corpse in ribbons of lightning that sizzled and cracked on the air. Jared barely had time to drop his sword before all that power slammed into him with a sound like thunder. 

Jared yelled, Tom's Quickening coursing through every vein in his body and fighting for control. Arms and legs spread wide, Jared became pinned in the centre of a maelstrom of lightning exploded through the room, blasting gouges in the cement floor and shattering the windows overhead. Jensen ducked from a shower of broken glass, swearing when one of the massive steel girders holding the ceiling gave way with a thunderous groan of torn metal. He pressed his back up against the wall, peripherally aware of Jared writhing in the grip of a Quickening two millennia strong. It seemed to last forever.

And then, abruptly, everything stopped. 

Darkness swallowed the room, heavy and thick in the wake of so much arching lightning. Jared crumpled to his hands and knees like his strings had been cut, the panting of his breath desperately loud in the sudden silence. 

Cautiously, Jensen dared a step forwards. Jared's head snapped up to track him, wild-eyed and sheened with sweat. Jensen raised his sword again, ready to defend himself if Jared decided to add _his_ head to tonight's tally.

Except Jared made no move to attack, just stared at him with a hunger deep enough to turn his eyes black in the dim light.

And Jensen knew that feeling: the staticky jangle of power that set his blood on fire and whirled a thunderstorm in his head, like all that electricity could explode back out of him at any minute if it didn't find an outlet. Fight or fuck. The savage need burning him up from inside wouldn't allow for anything less.

Looking at Jared now, it didn't take a genius to know which choice he was leaning towards.

The hair stood up on the back of Jensen's neck.

"Jared," he tried, and watched Jared shudder with the effort of keeping all that animal fury locked away inside himself.

"You should-" Jared's voice broke on a guttural growl, "-leave. Now."

It was the best idea. It was more than late enough that this area of town should be deserted, but all it took was one person who'd caught the recent light show to bring the police down to check it out. And it was never a good idea to get caught standing next to a headless body.

"Go!" Jared gasped, his whole body shaking as he struggled against the force of 2000 years of power hammering at his insides. "I can't-"

So, on the one hand, prudent retreat.

On the other, sex with Jared.

There really wasn't a choice. 

Slowly, deliberately, Jensen slid his sword back into its hidden sheath inside his coat and shrugged the whole thing off his shoulders. He laid it carefully over a still-intact shipping crate, and then took several large steps forward, moving away from the mosaic of shattered glass all over the floor and towards Jared.

Jared stared at him, hungry and wild.

Jensen spread his arms. "It's okay," he said, and Jared was on him immediately.

It wasn't gentle; the frenzy of taking a Quickening never left room for gentle. Jensen hit the floor hard enough to make pain spark behind his eyes and Jared stole the shocked breath that escaped his lungs with a kiss that was more like being devoured than anything else.

"Gods," Jensen gasped, between sharp, drugging kisses. "Jared-"

Jared's bit at Jensen's lower lip to shut him up, hard enough to break the skin; Jensen tasted the copper tang of blood on their tongues. 

Jared shifted, hands leaving their heavy grip on Jensen's arms to track lower. Jensen heard the rip of fabric a moment before the sparking pain of Jared's nails dragged down his thigh, tearing his jeans and the skin underneath at the same time. 

Jared sucked in a sharp, eager breath as he wrestled an unresisting Jensen out of the ruins of his pants. His hands were burning hot and Jensen fancied that he was leaving flaming fingerprints with every possessive stroke of his hands.

Those scalding hands forced Jensen's legs apart and Jared pressed between them, fingers probing gracelessly at Jensen's hole.

"Jared," Jensen panted, trying to recoil from the dry press and unable to for the sudden weight of Jared's forearm pressed low across his stomach. Jared hissed impatiently and his fingers disappeared. Jensen swallowed hard.

Jared didn't bother undressing himself properly, just fumbled open his belt and zipper and shoved everything down far enough to get his cock out. He paused just long enough to make eye contact and the black hunger on his face would have made Jensen recoil if he'd been able to move that far. "Feel free to scream," Jared said, then slammed into him and Jensen was obeying that order before his brain had even caught up to what just happened.

It hurt. Jared was _big_ and Jensen wasn't getting laid on nearly a regular enough basis to make the lack of prep anything other than agonizing. It didn't matter to the fire in Jared's blood, though, and Jensen wasn't doing anything to stop him.

Jared leaned down and fastened his mouth to the thrown-back column of Jensen's neck, biting hard enough to draw blood. Jensen gasped and sobbed, fighting to give in.

"Ready?" Jared hissed, not a question. He pulled slowly back, a raw drag of solid heat against torn skin that hurt nearly as much as that first push. 

Then his hips snapped forward and Jensen choked on a yell when he buried himself to the hilt, too fast, too soon. He felt the tacky glide of blood making it easier for Jared to thrust and dug his fingers into Jared's shoulders hard enough to bruise.

Jared immediately set a punishing pace, pounding into Jensen over and over and over again in an implacable drive towards his own release. The crackle of Tom's Quickening snapped between them, staining the air with the burn of ozone and burning across Jensen's skin. 

Jensen's own Quickening was repairing the damage as fast as Jared could cause it, and Jensen thrashed between the dual sensations of fire and knife-edged pleasure. His cock was hard and dripping, fed by the pain nearly as much as the pleasure and smearing precome on Jared's shirt with every thrust.

His cries rang off the rafters - every groan and whimper echoing back a hundredfold. Jared was ruthlessly silent, nothing but the random grunt of exertion betraying the force which he was fucking into Jensen. His fingers were clamped vice-tight on Jensen's waist, dragging him into every thrust and making his back slide painfully against the ground. It was all Jensen could do to hang on.

He was feeling dangerously close to passing out by the time Jared's hips shuttered and stilled, but that didn't stop him from wrapping a hand around his erection and jerking himself fast, just the way he liked it. A few tugs in and he felt Jared's hand settle atop of his, curling just right, and he lost it with a stuttering moan, making a complete mess of both of their shirts before sagging into an exhausted heap.

They lay there in the aftermath, gasping for breath. Jensen felt the quick skitter of his Quickening over his skin, repairing the damage that Jared's grasping hands had done. He spared a moment to regret the fact that he wouldn't have any bruises to remember that by.

"So," Jared said, finally. He pulled himself upright to look into Jensen's face and they both hissed when his cock slipped free. "Jensen, huh?"

Jensen had to chuckle. "Jamieson," he corrected. "For the last decade or so, anyway." He glanced at the headless body a few feet away and sighed a little. "I've had the misfortune of knowing Tom for a lot longer than that. He always liked rubbing it in."

"I go by Tristan these days," Jared offered, and Jensen was glad that he didn't press the issue. Talking about the life of an Immortal was a minefield at the best of times, and Tom wasn't a chapter that Jensen particularly cared to revisit. 

"Better than Inigo," Jensen said, for want of anything else to say.

Jared snickered. "So why'd you turn me down back then?" he asked, almost idly. He stroked one broad, possessive hand down the curve of Jensen's side. "Clearly you're okay with this."

"You were a little young for me," Jensen said, and felt an unfamiliar warmth burble up inside him when it made Jared laugh.

"Fair enough. I'm getting the impression that there are very few people who aren't, though. And I like to think that I'm a little more grown up, these days."

"Hard to argue with you there." Jensen drifted curious fingers over the muscles in Jared's arm and wondered if Jared had ever sat for any sculptors before he'd left Italy. This was a body that deserved to be immortalized in marble. 

"I'm glad you see things my way. I think you should also agree that now is a great time to get something to eat because, I don't know about you, but I'm starving."

"Is this you asking me out?" Jensen asked.

Jared grinned incandescently. "I think it might be, yes. What do you say?"

Jensen had no alternative but to grin back. He'd always approved of second chances. "I say we get out of here before someone comes to see what all the noise and property destruction was about, and then we go for dinner." He paused. "After I get a new pair of pants."

~fin

**Author's Note:**

> Fun Facts/Further Story Canon! Because I am a colossal dork.
> 
> \- Jared was born in AD 1592. The name Jared (which is Hebrew for 'descent') was popularized in Europe during the Protestant Reformation (which began in 1517). Jared's parents were well-to-do Polish Protestants - Poland was impressively accepting of different religions given the time period. He was 17 the first time he met Jensen, and 28 when he was killed during the Polish-Ottoman War (which was an offshoot of the 30 Years War, because that's how Europe rolled during the Renaissance).
> 
> \- Jensen was born somewhere around 810 BC. The name Jensen is the Danish equivalent of Johnson (son of John/Ioannes), so it very likely isn't his 'real' name, but he'll be damned if he could tell you where he picked it up. He was probably brought to the Assyrian Empire as a child slave, which happened long enough ago that even he can't remember. He was somewhere in his early 30s when he was killed during a conflict with the Babylonians.


End file.
